


Persuasion

by rebooting



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:25:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebooting/pseuds/rebooting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after Sam ran away to Stanford, he receives an odd visitor. Lucifer, already inhabiting Sam's body in 2010, has come back in time to try to convince Sam to let him in and kick-start the Apocalypse several years early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persuasion

Sam wishes he felt homesick.

He's been at Stanford for three days, living out of the five boxes that he'd thrown into the rental car, changing the subject whenever the other students talk about where they came from. He got lucky and got a single dorm – he can't imagine trying to keep his past a secret from someone he had to live with. He might not have been as into hunting as John and Dean, but he's got his share of scars and idiosyncrasies.

He's made some friends, of sorts. Brady, cheerful and a little too bright in the mornings. Chris, who hates being called Christine and bemoans the lack of "proper" iced tea in California. Isaac, whose Goth façade covers up a far more chipper personality than most people guess. Isaac and Chris already know each other; they attracted Brady early on, according to Chris, and then the three of them adopted Sam, who spent the first day at Stanford keeping to himself. They're nice. He wishes he could be more honest with them.

He's not homesick, and that feels somehow wrong, another piece of his childhood that he doesn't get to have because of his father's obsession. First days of school quickly became routine, extracurriculars were verboten since they threatened to take precious time away from hunting, and Sam learned early on to keep his fears to himself, after being handed a gun to protect himself from the non-existent monster in the closet. (He checked, after a while. The shape that had frightened him in the dark had been an old dress that he thinks was his mother's. He'd seen John standing in front of the closet one night when Sam was pretending to be asleep, reaching out and not quite touching the dress.) All the usual milestones of life were swept under the rug, not as important as John's _mission_ , and it seems that homesickness requires a place to actually feel like home.

He sighs, flopping back onto the bed. It's early yet; he could always call Chris or Brady or Isaac, see if one of them wants to do something. But he doesn't feel like bothering them, and he doesn't really feel like company. He's feeling weird, as though the absence of homesickness has allowed some other ephemeral feeling to take over him. Part of it is loneliness – he's felt that often enough to recognise it now – but he can't work out what the rest of it is. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was almost foreboding.

Lying on the bed, doing nothing, just makes the feeling worse. Sam sits up with a growl, toeing off his shoes and pulling his shirt off, tossing it onto the chair by the desk. He works out some of his agitation through push-ups and crunches, relishing the burn in his muscles. When his arms start shaking too much for him to raise his body up off the floor, he gets to his feet and stumbles into the bathroom, turning the shower on and letting the hot water soothe him. Bending his head forward, letting the water hit the base of his neck, he finds the sensation and warmth starting to soothe away the tension headache that's been plaguing him for the last three days.

Finally calmed down, Sam shuts off the water and climbs into a pair of sweatpants, going back to his dorm room and sitting on the edge of the bed, towelling his hair dry.

There's a strange sense of pressure, as though the room was suddenly forced to contain more air than it should, and a quiet voice says, "Hey, kiddo."

Sam whirls around, shifting back into a fighting stance almost unconsciously. The man standing in front of him has his hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans, looking anything but threatening, but it's not just his presence that makes Sam stare at him.

He could swear he's looking at himself.

A second look proves that there are some differences. The other Sam is a little broader across the shoulders, has more muscle across the chest. He looks older, too – his hair's longer, shaggier, with questionable sideburns that look halfway to turning into muttonchops – and there's an odd, aeons-old tiredness in his expression.

Sam shivers. He can't help but feel that there's something inhuman looking at him from the eyes that he sees every day in the mirror.

The other Sam smiles at him, and says softly, "Relax, Sam. I'm not going to hurt you."

"What are you?" Sam demands. Not _who_ , because _that's_ obvious, but _what_ the intruder could be covers several options. (Quietly, he hates that he can come up with several explanations for "doppelganger showing up in your dorm room", but that's neither here nor there.)

The not-Sam gives him a bit of a wistful smile. "I'd say I'm you from the future, but that's only partly true," he says. His voice is deeper than Sam's, more gravely. "See, some . . . some really bad stuff is going to happen. I'm the end result of five years of pain and loss and fighting. I'm trying to make it so that none of that has to happen."

"Wouldn't that cause a paradox?" Sam asks, frowning. A part of him is appalled that he cares about the nature of paradox when _someone who looks just like him_ is standing in his dorm room, but it's a pertinent question. "You come back in time and change things, where does that leave _you_?"

"It means I won't have killed my brothers," the not-Sam says. He sees the dawning horror in Sam's eyes and hastens to explain, "Not _your_ brother. It's complicated."

"You're not me." Sam begins to edge towards the boxes stacked next to the desk; for all he'd told John that he was giving up the hunting life, he still carries a knife in his things. "You're – something in my body. _What are you_?"

The not-Sam sighs, looking tired again. The lights flicker, and Sam could swear he sees the shadow of wings as the not-Sam says quietly, "An archangel."

Sam stares at him.

"I know you believe," the not-Sam continues. There's a deep, gentle understanding in his voice, and his bearing is completely non-threatening; Sam can't work out why he doesn't trust either of those things. "You pray. More and more, you feel like nobody's listening, but you pray anyway, because that belief is something to hold onto, and because you _have_ to believe that _someone_ will hear, even if it's not Him."

Despite the strangeness of the situation, despite the fact that Sam feels an odd roiling in his gut whenever the not-Sam speaks, there's the ring of truth to what he's saying. Somehow, Sam believes that the inhuman being looking at him through his own eyes is an archangel.

"Why are you here?" he asks, his voice suddenly hoarse. The knife in his box of clothes is forgotten, if it would even do any damage to an _archangel_ anyway.

The not-Sam – the archangel – smiles, approaching him slowly, like Sam's a frightened animal that needs careful handling. Sam backs up unconsciously – he believes the archangel, but there's still something deeply unsettling about all of this – and the archangel follows him, until Sam's shoulders bump against the wall. The archangel moves even closer, close enough to reach up and rest his hand on Sam's chest. Something about the touch feels almost electric, wrong somehow, but Sam isn't given time to protest.

The archangel kisses him. Sam gasps, shocked by more than the kiss itself – it feels so _normal_ and yet so strange at the same time. It feels almost like kissing a girl, except for the scrape of stubble. It feels almost indecent, though, knowing that it's _his body_ that's kissing him, and he makes a soft sound of protest, reaching up to shove at the angel's shoulders.

"Shh," the archangel murmurs, nipping Sam's lower lip reprovingly. He wraps his hands around Sam's wrists, pinning them to the wall by his hips, and keeps kissing him. He coaxes Sam's mouth open, deepening the kiss too fast for Sam to keep up; he's left panting when the archangel pulls back a little, studying him for his reaction.

"What are you _doing_?" Sam demands. He knows what the archangel is doing – he's nineteen, and sure, he might not be the most experienced guy at Stanford, but he hasn't been a virgin since that awkward, fumbling night with Bethany Cooper last summer – but it doesn't make _sense_. He needs to know _why_.

"You're lonely," the archangel says quietly. "Everyone wants you to be something more than what you are. I don't expect you to be anything but Sam Winchester. _This_ is who you are," he says, lifting one hand to rest, fingers splayed, on Sam's chest. "That's all I want."

"Why are you here?" Sam repeats his question from earlier, trying not to think too much about what the archangel just said. There's an odd sort of yearning in the archangel's eyes, one that Sam has never seen in his own eyes before, and it scares him a little.

"I need you to let me in," the archangel says. His hand is still splayed on Sam's chest; he presses a little, just a hint of pressure. "I need you to say yes."

Instinctively, Sam baulks. He's spent too long fighting to take control of his own life, to defy his father's obsession and his brother's sycophantic devotion to a man who should never have taken his kids on the road with him. He's been in control of his life since he drove his rented car away from the hotel they'd been staying in this time, and he can't give it up now.

The archangel seems to read all that in his expression, and smiles, a little sadly. He leans in to kiss Sam again, and murmurs, "Giving up control doesn't have to be bad, Sam. I'll show you."

He ignores Sam's protests, manhandling him over to the narrow college-dorm bed. He's gentle but implacable; Sam's struggles achieve nothing, and Sam had always considered himself to be pretty strong. The archangel has him facedown on the bed, arms twists up behind his back, before he even knows what's happening.

"Let me go," he protests, writhing in the archangel's grip. The archangel murmurs something soothing and keeps his grip on Sam's arms tight, holding his wrists with one hand while he goes through the nearest box with his other hand, searching for something.

 _What_ he's looking before becomes obvious when he begins to wrap a belt around Sam's arms, binding them hand-to-elbow behind his back, the thick leather biting into his skin. It's not a comfortable position, and it's too secure for Sam to be able to wriggle out of it easily.

"I'm trying to save you a great deal of pain," the archangel says quietly as he binds Sam's arms. He runs his hand over Sam's shoulders, soothing the tense muscles, and adds, "There's so much death in your future, Sam. So much hurt. Do you really want to have to go through all that just out of some instinctive rejection of submission?"

"Let me _go_ ," Sam repeats, throwing himself backwards in an attempt to knock the archangel off-balance. He's caught easily, though, and pulled back against the archangel's chest. One arm is firm around his chest, holding him despite his wriggling; the other is drifting low on Sam's stomach, just above the waistband of his sweatpants. Sam grits his teeth, bucking against the archangel's hold, but it's futile. Whatever else he might be, the archangel is inhumanly strong.

"When you're twenty-two, your girlfriend is murdered," the archangel whispers, his breath cool against Sam's ear. Sam stiffens in his grip, automatically rejecting his words, but he continues implacably. "You come home in November and she's on the ceiling, gutted, dripping her blood onto your face. She bursts into flames, just like your mother. She's murdered on the orders of the same demon who murdered your mother, because he has _plans_ for you."

"No." Sam won't believe it. It's a trick. "You're lying."

"Her name is Jessica Lee Moore. She's pretty, smart, funny. She jokes that you'd crash and burn without her, but sometimes you feel like you would." The archangel's hand is moving lower, slipping beneath the waistband of Sam's pants, obscenely gentle despite the horrible things he's saying. "Azazel has her murdered. He has one of his cronies take over Brady, and the demon inside Brady murders Jessica while Brady screams inside his own head."

" _No_ ," Sam hisses through clenched teeth. "You're _lying_. Why would you tell me any of this?"

"You need to know what's ahead," the archangel says calmly. His hand stills, sitting far too low on Sam's stomach, half in Sam's pants. The archangel continues, "You take up the hunting life again, but it doesn't help. It makes things worse. Oh, you save some people, but the losses? Pastor Jim, Ellen, Jo, Ash? The number of times you or Dean or John sacrifice yourselves for each other, only to find that things only get worse? Being yanked around by Azazel and his motley crew? By the time I found you, Sam, you were miserable, broken. You’d been through so much."

There's too much truth in what he's saying. Sam _wants_ to tell him to fuck off, that he doesn't believe him, but there's far too much truth in his words, hanging heavy like thunderclouds. Sam can practically feel the weight of the years that separate him and the archangel inhabiting his future body pressing down on him, suffocating, and suddenly it's too hard to fight. He goes limp in the archangel's arms, trembling a little, feeling an odd, broken sensation in his chest.

"You're not lying, are you?" he asks, _begs_. He wants the archangel to be lying, is desperate for it. But even as he feels the archangel inhale behind him, about to answer, he knows that it's all the truth.

"I'm here to make sure that never has to happen," the archangel says soothingly. "Jessica doesn't have to die for Azazel's plans. Brady doesn't have to be possessed. John and Dean don't have to die for you or each other. I couldn't fix things where I came from, but I could come back here and try to make it right. All I need is for you to let me in."

Even believing the archangel, it's not that easy. Sam holds his freedom as too precious, too valuable to just give it up like that. The archangel seems to know this, too, without Sam saying it. He presses a kiss to Sam's jaw, whispering, "It's all right. I'll show you how to say yes."

He has Sam on his back on the bed before Sam knows what's going on. All Sam's weight is on his bound arms, and it's going to get painful sooner or later. The archangel hooks his fingers in the waistband of Sam's sweatpants and drags them down over his legs, and Sam can't help blushing. It feels ridiculous – he should be comfortable being naked in front of _himself_ , shouldn't he? But there's nothing _right_ about this, nothing that makes any sense.

He's too broad to share the bed, and he's even broader in the future. The archangel doesn't try to lie beside him, instead straddling his legs, wrapping one hand around his cock and stroking almost absently, the movements arrhythmic and stuttered and enough to get him hard but not to bring him to the edge, not quickly. That seems to be the archangel's design, though. He smiles when Sam hardens in his hand, grins when Sam lets out an involuntary whimper at the way the archangel twists his wrist at the end of a stroke, but he doesn't _do_ anything to bring Sam closer to orgasm once he's aroused.

Suddenly, the weight is gone from Sam's thighs, and the archangel isn't touching him anymore. Sam struggles to sit up, trying to see what the archangel is doing, and is met with a hot, mischievous look that he _knows_ he's never seen on his own face. The archangel is crouched by the foot of the bed, examining something on the floor. He lifts it for Sam to see – one of the long green ribbons that Chris likes to wear in her hair. She must have left it here when she and Isaac were visiting that afternoon.

Sam's given a brief moment to consider what the archangel is thinking before the archangel is back on the bed again, straddling his legs and toying with the green ribbon. He strokes Sam's cock again, with more purpose this time, working him over until Sam is trembling and whimpering beneath him. He draws Sam to the very edge, and then he stops, deftly winding the ribbon around the base of Sam's cock and his balls, just tight enough to be uncomfortable and to serve as an effective, if somewhat ridiculous, cock ring.

Sam makes a soft sound of protest, and the archangel smirks, leaning down to kiss him hard. His stomach brushes against the head of Sam's cock, and Sam jerks his hips up almost automatically; the archangel chuckles softly, reaching down with one hand to pin Sam's hip to the bed in an embarrassingly easy display of strength.

"None of that," the archangel murmurs. "I'm showing you that giving control to me isn't all bad, remember? Now let's get you up."

He helps Sam sit up, nudges him off the bed and onto his knees on the carpet. And then, keeping Sam pinned in place with nothing more than his gaze, he strips.

Sam feels as though he shouldn't be staring at a body that's his but for the space of a few years, but he can't help it. The Sam from the future isn't any taller than _he_ is, but he's got more muscle and more scars, some that Sam doesn't want to ask about. There's not an ounce of softness on his future self; his entire body has been honed into a weapon, from the big, long-fingered hands to the hard muscles rippling beneath his skin as he moves. Sam swallows as the archangel finishes undressing and the evidence of his arousal is right before Sam's eyes – almost literally, given he's kneeling and the archangel is standing not two feet away. They have the same body, and Sam's not _proportionally_ overlarge but he _is_ built on a larger scale than almost everyone else, and his cock follows suit. And it's fairly obvious, from their relative positioning, what the archangel is going to have him do.

The archangel sits on the edge of the bed and guides Sam in between his knees, petting his hair reassuringly. Sam swallows again, whispering, "I – I can't. Please–"

"Shh," the archangel says softly. "Just do what I say. It'll be fine."

He's given time to ease into it, at least. And the archangel doesn't seem to expect him to take all of it – he wraps his hand around his own cock, threading the fingers of his other hand into Sam's hair and guiding his head forward. The head of his cock bumps against Sam's lips before Sam opens his mouth, taking in a deep breath through his nose as he wraps his lips around the archangel's dick.

He thinks, wildly, that he should know his own anatomy better than this; he shouldn't be so _surprised_ at how big a penis that is technically his own feels. He manages not to choke, but it's mostly because the archangel has taken pity on him and is keeping his hand around the base, cutting precious inches off what Sam has to take into his mouth.

"Good," the archangel says, stroking his fingers through Sam's hair approvingly as Sam begins to tentatively suck. For all he's not a virgin, he's never done _anything_ with another guy before; all he has to work with is what feels good to him. Which is better in this circumstance than another, he has to admit – the archangel _is_ in his body from the future, which means that what Sam likes, the archangel should like. Whatever relief he might have got from that revelation, though, is mostly consumed by how _strange_ this whole situation is. Is giving your future self a blowjob better or worse than incest, he wonders vaguely, as the archangel's fingers tighten in his hair. Or is it just a very elaborate form of masturbation?

The archangel only makes him suck for a few minutes before guiding him back, leaning down to kiss him on the lips. He tugs Sam to his feet, pressing him back against the wall and insinuating a leg between Sam's thighs, knee pressing up against his balls in a movement that's firm rather than painful. A tiny movement catches the ribbon, making it tighten for a moment around Sam's cock, and Sam lets out a strangled whimper into the kiss.

He's kept pinned to the wall for agonisingly long minutes, while the archangel leisurely kisses him, ravaging Sam's mouth with his tongue as though he wants to taste himself. The small movements of the archangel's knee between Sam's legs keep Sam at an almost constant level of arousal, and the tightness of the ribbon keeps him from coming. The archangel seems to delight in keeping him on that knife-edge of pleasure, if the slow, lazy kisses are anything to go by.

Eventually, he's pulled away from the wall and returned to the bed, this time pushed down on his stomach. The archangel sits on the bed, arranging Sam in his lap, almost fastidiously settling his cock against the archangel's leg. The touch, clinical and brief as it is, makes Sam squirm.

The archangel's hands are rough and callused as they slide over Sam's ass, caressing his skin. It's almost like a massage, and Sam relaxes as much as he _can_ with his arms bound behind him and the distracting ache between his legs. The archangel seems content to ignore that for now, though, mapping each inch of Sam's skin with his hands. His fingers get close enough, skating over Sam's inner thighs, to make him quiver, now and then, but none of the touches are enough to let him come.

He's taken completely by surprise when the archangel stops touching him for a moment, and then carefully inserts one slicked finger inside him. The intrusion is completely foreign, and it feels strange as much as it hurts. Sam cries out, muffling the sound at the last minute – _how thick are the dorm walls?_ – by biting his lip hard.

The archangel takes pity on him; as he keeps working his finger inside of Sam, adding a second one after a few minutes, he wraps his other hand around Sam's cock, the sudden rush of pleasure distracting Sam enough that the intrusion of the archangel's fingers is bearable. Once Sam's used to the feeling, though, the archangel stops touching his cock, chuckling softly at the whimper Sam lets out in response, and begins to work his fingers in earnest, crooking them to hit the spot inside Sam that makes spots explode in his vision.

"Please," Sam chokes. He can feel how hard the archangel is, and that scares him a little, because if having two fingers inside him hurts, how much more would it hurt to have a cock shoved in? He doesn't even know what he's asking for, really, just that he can't bear to be kept on the edge like this.

The mercy of a few minutes ago is gone. The archangel keeps twisting his fingers inside Sam, rubbing them over his prostate over and over, until Sam is whimpering and shaking in the archangel's lap, too breathless to beg anymore. He's still hard, his cock lying heavy against the archangel's leg, aching to be touched, to be released from the ridiculous bondage of green ribbon.

"You have a choice," the archangel says finally, leaning down to press a kiss to Sam's shoulder. "You always have a choice with me, Sam. You can tell me to go, and I'll untie you right now and leave you alone. Or you can tell me that you trust me, and I'll finish this, and we can talk about what I came here for. Which do you want?"

Sam whimpers, closing his eyes. It doesn't seem fair that the archangel is asking him to decide _now_ , but he supposes that's the point. He has no control over this situation except for this choice; he just has to decide whether his pride is more important to him. Whether he can give up control for tonight. Whether, in the long run, he can give up control in exchange for the lives of this Jessica Moore, of Brady, of his brother and father.

"Stay," he whispers raggedly, eventually. "I trust you."

"There we go," the archangel says, sounding fond. "I won't ask you to accept me until afterwards," he promises. "That wouldn't be fair. Now open your mouth."

Sam automatically does as he's told, and almost immediately a gag is fitted into his mouth, between his teeth, and buckled around his head. He wants to ask where the hell the archangel got a _gag_ from, but that’s the point of the thing, isn't it? He _can't_ ask – not where the gag came from, and not for the archangel to have mercy on him and let him come.

The archangel turns Sam onto his back, shifting up to the head of the bed to support Sam's head and shoulders in his lap. He leans over to kiss Sam's forehead, murmuring, "Just relax. You'll see, it's worth it."

Sam has to trust him. He doesn't have much choice, does he? He closes his eyes, trying to focus, only to be jolted out of his thoughts by the sensation of the archangel pinching his nipples.

He can't tell how long the archangel plays with him, twisting and pinching his nipples just this side of painfully, ignoring his cock despite Sam's moans. It seems as though hours must have passed, enough for the sun to be rising, but it's still dark outside when the archangel lifts his hands from Sam's chest, giving Sam's right nipple one last thoughtful tweak and humming softly at the moan that the movement elicits.

Finally, after God knows how long, the archangel reaches down to wrap his hand around Sam's cock, starting to stroke slowly. Sam whimpers, rocking his hips up into the archangel's hand, panting behind the gag. It's another few minutes of torturously good stimulation before the archangel reaches down with his other hand, undoing the ribbon and pulling it away, letting it fall to the floor as he quickens his strokes. Sam comes with a choked cry, muffled by the gag, collapsing back onto the bed, breathless from the force of sensation. He's _never_ felt anything so intense before.

The archangel cleans him up, unbuckles the gag, leans in to kiss him softly. He helps Sam sit up and unties him, rolling the belt up neatly and setting it by the bed, and rubs Sam's arms firmly to help restore the circulation. It's a care that Sam didn't expect, and almost relishes for its gentleness.

After long minutes of silence, the archangel asks softly, "Will you trust me, Sam? Will you let me in?"

Exhausted, overwhelmed, too off-balance to ask the questions he'd normally ask, Sam nods. He whispers, "Yes."

The archangel smiles, and the look in his eyes scares Sam. As the archangel starts to raise his hands, reaching for Sam's face, Sam realises something.

"You never told me your name."

The archangel cups Sam's face with his hands, his smile beatific and satisfied. As Sam begins to feel the pressure of _something else_ inside his head, the archangel uses his last moments in the future-Sam's body to say one word.

"Lucifer."


End file.
